We're Chickenheads
What would a neighborhood hole-in-the-wall gambling den look like? What sort of man was the dealer Marcello had mentioned? I decided to go see for myself.
I led the members who were about to ship out for training camp over to the den. They'd been whining about having no stake money, so I doled out two dollars apiece.
"With this, I'm turning a hundred bucks today!"
"Gotta show some filial piety before we ship out."
"What else is life for!?"
Gavin and a few others shouted it bold and loud, but Drift—who was already certain he'd end up a driver specialist—had a more cautious thought.
"But what if they recognize us? We hit them twice already. If they catch our voices, we're fucked, right?"
"If they do, we deny it. What are they gonna do? If they hit us, I'll thank them for the free beating. If they shoot, even better."
Sometimes it was hard to tell whether the kids were brave or just plain stupid.
Of course, that was exactly what I was counting on.
Right now every nerve in the United States was focused on entering the European war. Newspaper headlines were plastered with stories about the first draftees heading off to training. So what if a soldier about to report for induction got murdered in a gambling den?
It would immediately be treated as a violation of the Selective Service Act. Not only the police but Army investigators would get involved. They'd raid Manhattan dens left and right to surveil and protect other draftees. And any killer they caught would catch an extra wartime obstruction charge on top of everything else—maximum sentence, no mercy.
In short, whether you died on a battlefield or here, a draftee had nothing left to fear in this world.
That attitude showed the moment we hit the entrance.
"Don't block us. We're here with everything we own for one last roll of the dice."
"…"
"Leave the door wide open so you don't get in the way when we clean the place out."
We waved the doormen off with easy laughter and strolled straight inside. I was the only one they actually stopped.
"What about you?"
"What do you think? I'm here to gamble."
Gavin glared and barked at them.
"He's coming with us to burn it down, so don't block him. You boys pick and choose your customers or what?"
Because of the Naples-Sicily feud, they actually preferred to keep Italian customers out. And it was pretty rich for broke operators to be choosy about patrons. They finally stepped aside and pointed us down the basement stairs.
"Okay, let's go!"
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
I followed at a leisurely pace behind the members who charged down in high spirits.
The iron door swung open onto a gloomy den thick with cigarette smoke. People were so locked into their games they barely glanced our way when we entered.
Roulette. Poker. Three-card. Faro. Craps.
As we passed the tables, eyes began flicking toward me one by one.
"Look who finally figured out cards beat mahjong. Kid's gonna learn a lot more before the night's over."
An old man knocked back whiskey and snickered. The reactions around him were similar—not pure mockery, just mild interest in a new Oriental face among the regulars.
I wandered the tables like a complete newbie, peeking at everything, until I stopped at the craps table.
Craps was a two-dice game, the most popular one here just like in the Tenderloin dens. The rules were simple: you rolled two dice and the numbers decided win or loss.
The shooter—the person throwing the dice—won immediately if the first roll (the come-out roll) was 7 or 11, and lost on 2, 3, or 12. Anything else—4, 5, 6, 8, 9, or 10—became the "point." After that you kept rolling until you hit the point again (win) or a 7 (loss).
Players bet on whether the shooter would win or lose. Pass Line was for the win; Don't Pass Line was for the loss.
Because all you needed was two dice, you saw craps played in alleys all the time.
"I'll shoot this one."
"Oh, feeling it, are you? Then I'm betting against."
"Fuck."
The shooter was always one of the players. This one put fifty cents on the Pass Line. Some followed him; others piled onto the Don't Pass Line—where the total bets ran about twice as high.
The nervous shooter blew on the dice, tossed them, and shouted:
"Come out roll!"
Every eye locked on the tumbling cubes. They settled on a total of 7.
Cheers and groans erupted together.
"Shooter wins."
Pass Line paid. The dealer's job split into box man—who supervised the game and handled money and bets—and stick man—who used a long stick to rake dice and chips. In the Tenderloin three dealers worked a craps table; here one man did everything.
Blank face. Exhausted eyes ringed with heavy dark circles. The curly-haired dealer scraped the dice and the losing bets with his stick.
For reference, craps cheating usually happened right then—when the stick raked the dice. You swapped them. The loaded dice had internal weights that could force certain numbers.
Say the shooter won three times in a row. Probability said the next roll should lose, so the crowd piled onto Don't Pass. Then the dealer switched in the loaded dice and made the fourth roll a win too. The longer a streak ran, the higher the odds and the bigger the pots. The dealer, of course, ate the full force of the losers' rage.
Like right now.
"Fuck, seven times in a row 7 or 11! How the hell is that possible!? Dealer, talk, you bastard. You fucked with the dice, didn't you!?"
A furious customer glared daggers at the dealer. Big dens seeded staff among the players—shills who called the angry guy a sore loser and smoothed things over. Here there was none of that. The dealer had to handle it alone. The other staff simply watched, waiting to see what the heated customer would do. In fact the staff—the gangsters—preferred it when a customer wrecked the place; it gave them an excuse to take even more. Classic small-time thug tactics.
While the angry customer was still yelling at the dealer, our brave draftees drifted over, scratching their crotches and swaggering.
"Hey, if you lost your money, just fuck off."
"Did the dealer throw the dice? Quit your bitching."
"Who the fuck are you to stick your nose in, assholes!?"
"Oh, you wanna throw a punch? Hit the right side first. I'll give you the left free."
Playing at protecting the house just enough, Gavin shoved the troublemakers off the table and claimed the spot.
"We settle it right here! Let's go!"
The rest of the members wandered around, even trying the staff corridors before getting chased out, poking through the den like outlaws. I stared hard at the exhausted craps dealer—Lenny Goldstein. When our eyes met he smiled, a forced, pitiful little smile.
I didn't play; I just watched. Four losses in a row and I wanted to smack the back of Gavin's head, but I held back.
Is this guy even human?
"Ah, fuck it. I don't know anymore."
Gavin dumped his last seventy cents on the Pass Line.
It was two in the afternoon. Time to head to Hell's Kitchen and get some range practice with the Gunsmith. I pulled the money from my pocket and made my first and last bet of the day—on the opposite side of Gavin's.
"Five dollars? What kind of crazy bastard is cursing—"
Gavin spun around in irritation and locked eyes with me. His lips twitched; then he set his jaw for the showdown.
"I'm winning this one."
"We'll see."
"Dealer, dice!"
Gavin stood and held out his hand. The dealer flinched and passed them over.
Hooo—
Spit. Spit.
He even spat on the dice, closed his eyes, and prayed. By then the members had gathered to watch the spectacle.
"Hup! Come on, 7 or 11!"
Gavin finally yelled and threw. One die showed 1. The other showed 2.
"3—shooter loses!"
The dealer raked the dice and Gavin's Pass Line money with his stick, then paid out even money on the Don't Pass Line.
"Marcello said I'd win if I came here. He was right."
The dealer set five dollars in front of me, then startled and looked up. I held his gaze and left one dollar of the ten as the dealer's tip.
"Let's go. Time's up."
I patted the shoulder of Gavin, who was already tearing at his hair. He groaned. The one who looked truly rattled by my words was the dealer. He checked the other staff, then scrubbed a hand down his face.
In a back office of the den, the moment the Irish crowd left, Lenny Goldstein was summoned by the boss.
"You fucking idiot, can't even run the dice right? How much did we just lose?"
Pacifico, the Neapolitan gangster, set an iron pipe on the desk and tore into Lenny.
"They were first-timers. I was trying to let them win. That's how you build regulars—"
"Regulars are fine. Yeah, you're right. They gotta win once so the rush sticks. That high brings them back tomorrow even if they go broke today, right?"
But this wasn't the time for that.
"We might not even open tomorrow. What the fuck do I need regulars for? Huh? I told you to suck every last cent dry, didn't I?"
"…I'm sorry."
Pacifico suddenly nodded.
"If you're sorry, it comes out of your cut."
"What?"
"You said you were sorry. Just empty words? A college boy gonna flip his story now? Or should I drag your whole family in here to work it off?"
Bastard. Lenny ground his teeth.
"Oh, what's with the face? Smile if you don't want to die, you piece of shit."
Pacifico jabbed the end of the pipe hard into Lenny's chest. Lenny forced the corners of his trembling mouth upward and barely held back the tears stinging his eyes.
Should've just stayed a regular college student, gone to class, done some honest work even if it paid less. Then none of this would be happening.
At the same time a stubborn resistance rose up. His passion for mathematics was long dead. A company job or a quiet professorship didn't suit him. He didn't care about honor. What still writhed inside Lenny, even now, was pure hunger for money.
He wouldn't break this easily. Just get through the crisis and start fresh. That was the vow he needed every day just to keep going. Lenny left the office and walked back to the craps table. When the other dealers met his eyes they all wore the same bitter look.
The only hope the dealers had left was a change of ownership. Every one of them was praying the Sicilian gang would kill boss Pacifico for them.
On the way to the Gunsmith in Hell's Kitchen, everyone traded notes on what they'd seen inside the den.
"There was a door at the far end. When I tried it the kids blocked me like their lives depended on it."
"I got stopped there too, but I caught a glimpse—office, and a back stairway out."
"Must be the gang entrance."
I filed the rough layout of the place in my head, then we stopped at a pharmacy.
"Somebody sick?"
"No. Just need a few chemicals."
In this era you could buy almost any industrial chemical at a drugstore. I grabbed potassium nitrate and sodium bicarbonate, then looked for purified sugar in the form of sorbitol, but that wasn't common on the open market yet. Ordinary sugar would do.
"What are those for?"
"You'll see soon enough once you're on the battlefield."
"!"
I left them with that and started to pay when a poster behind the pharmacist caught my eye. A man carrying a fish—cod-liver oil tonic packed with vitamins A and D that kids needed. I wasn't sure I trusted period supplements, but since it was natural rather than synthetic, it wasn't bad. I'd get some for Roa and Liam.
We reached the alley where the Gunsmith worked. I pulled my scarf up and stepped inside—only to find the thugs I'd thought were gone clustered in a pack. A few faces I recognized shot to their feet.
Still chickenheads. Getting beat that hard and still no sense…
"Marginals!"
"Good afternoon, sir!"
They swarmed together and snapped off greetings. From behind, Gavin and the members waved them off and strode forward.
"Don't just hang around here—go do some work, you bastards. Yolyn, when the hell did you last go home?"
"…Planning to tonight."
"Tom, what's your brother been up to?"
"Haven't seen him myself in ages. But that ba— I mean, that gentleman…"
The one who'd taken a beating before pointed awkwardly at me. Gavin shrugged.
"He's our Boss."
"What!?"
Right—Hell's Kitchen was Marginals turf. They all knew each other through the grapevine. Leaving the stunned kids behind, we approached the iron door to the Gunsmith's place. The members spoke with distant voices.
"A few years ago that was exactly us."
"Yeah. Nobody set foot in the alley we guarded."
"Anyone who tried got wrecked. Who the hell did they think they were?"
They puffed their chests, full of swagger. Suddenly I was dying of curiosity.
"Why do you even guard the alley?"
"…Because it's our alley?"
"Yeah. Our territory."
To my ears the answer sounded exactly like because we're chickenheads.
Thud. Thud.
I knocked on the iron door. A pair of eyes appeared, scanned us up and down, then narrowed.
"I wondered who you were dragging over. Just a bunch of past-their-prime chickenheads."
"Funny—I was thinking the same thing."
"Come on, old man, that's harsh."
"We've grown up too."
"We're soldiers soon, you know. Soldiers."
Clank.
The door opened. The Gunsmith looked each of us over and nodded.
"You've grown big enough to head to war, I'll give you that."
From deeper inside, a pair of eyes sparkled through a crack in another door. Hazel was staring hard at the paper bag in my hand. Then she pointed back and forth between the bag and herself.
A gift? Sort of. We were going to make smoke bombs together, after all.
Clank.
The iron door shut behind us and we headed down to the basement range on the second level.